


The last Baratheon

by Jaluzi123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Battle, Drama, Gen, Tragedy, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaluzi123/pseuds/Jaluzi123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis is the only lord in Westeros who refuses to bend to Dany and her armies and three dragons. He will go into battle one last time, to do his duty and fight for what is his. Will he break before he bends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Stannis Baratheon was doomed. He and his pathetic force would be crushed in a storm of dragon fire and blood. His claim would end here, on this godsforsaken, windswept, Northern wasteland, its ground hard, rocky and frozen, with scarcely a living thing growing. Stannis' story would end up as a mere footnote in the annals of Westerosi history, a history that would be written by Daenerys Targaryen. Or so Stannis had been told. Every traitor and oathbreaker in the realm sang the same song, that they would not support him, their rightful king, against the Essosi invaders, and the Targaryen usurper. So be it. Their time would come too. He would make his stand here, in a desolate valley, far in the North.

Surrounded by nine tall, snowcapped peaks, Stannis had deployed his men around a series of hillocks. They numbered thirty thousand in total, among them were loyal Stormlanders, honour bound Northmen, fierce Wildlings, as well as thousands of volunteers from Dorne to the Twins. They were good men, loyal and true, and they had all come with willing hearts, to fulfill their duty to their King. He could ask no more than that.

Together, with thousands more, they had faced the armies of the undead, and smashed them, after nearly four years of war, and countless dead. In the end, it had been a resurrected Jon Snow, atop a dragon of ice risen from beneath the wall, who had won them the war. Without Stannis's men however, Westeros would have been overrun. The Others had been finally been halted just south of Winter fell, and their army destroyed. Armed with blades of dragonglass, fire, and precious Valyrian steel swords, the armies of the living had cut down countless undead and Others. But at a high cost. To Stannis, it had been worth it.

The threat from the North had been forever ended, with Snow taking up residence as King beyond the Wall. Stannis was left to pursue his claim south of it, to take control of a land wracked by war, plagued by treachery. Before he had even left the North however, news of a new threat, a threat from the east arrived. The Targaryen girl had landed at Kings Landing, and the whole of the South, from Sunspear to Highgarden, had declared for her.

Only he was left to face the might of Essos, two hundred thousand men, including forty thousand Dothraki screamers, ten thousand of those pointy capped eunuchs, and thousands more from the free cities, which had all bent the knee to that infernal dragon girl. All of them save for Braavos. Braavos alone had refused to bend, and had paid the price. News of the sack of Braavos had been brought by merchants, and the tale of a city turned to ash, and the slaughter of countless thousands of women, children and men, had spread through the realm like wildfire. A once proud city was now a smoking pile of rubble and charred corpses.

It was a warning, the emissaries had told him. A promise of what would happen to him and his men, should he resist the Dragon Queen. He had sent her a warning too. A message. He had had three of the four emissaries buried up to their necks in the snow outside Winterfell. They had lasted a day, screaming in agony as the frostbite went to work. Dawn found scores of ravens and wolves rooting around their corpses. Stannis had had the remains of their heads mounted on spikes above the gates of Winterfell, and had sent the fourth emissary back to Daenerys, to recount the grisly scene. He had made his choice. Now he would take the consequences as they came.


	2. The Hands

Davos shivered as the cold, biting wind howled around him, cutting him to the bone, and huddled deeper into his furs. The first snowflakes were gently beginning to fall, promising to coat the rocky valley in a thick white blanket. Snow was bad news for both sides, but Davos knew it would be much worse for the Essosi army, unused as they were to the cold harshness of a Westerosi winter. Stannis's men had provisions for a month, and few horses, whereas Davos knew that Daenerys had at least forty thousand mounted. Travelling through a devastated war zone in the grip of winter, with two hundred thousand men and forty thousand horses could be no easy task.

Glancing to his left, Davos observed his King, lost deep in thought, grinding his teeth with that familiar scowl on his face. He could only marvel at the stubbornness and rigidity of the man, a stubbornness that lead him to fight for what was his, no matter the cost or the odds. In truth, the odds had always been against King Stannis. At Storms End, Fair Isle, the Blackwater, the Wall, Winterfell and half a hundred other battles, Stannis had always faced insurmountable odds, yet somehow he had always managed to come on top. 

Every time, he had had a plan, and every time it had worked. Nearly every time. Davos reached surreptitiously for his long gone pouch, containing his ‘luck’, and remembered the Blackwater afire. The deaths of his sons were still raw and fresh in his mind, and he swore that if ever he got the chance, he would gain his revenge on the man who had burnt the Blackwater.

Tyrion Lannister was cold. Bitterly cold. This was a cold like he had never experienced before, not even when he had pissed off the edge of the wall, and had thought his cock had frozen. This time it probably had frozen, he reflected miserably. He was sore too. His back ached all over, and his arse had been chafed sore in the saddle. Horseback was no place for a dwarf, but it did not befit the Queen's hand to walk. He had more pressing matters to worry about, however. 

Seventeen Dothraki horses had died yesterday, and twenty men had gone missing in the snowstorm. There was also the issue of supplies. It was impossible to run a supply line all the way to the south, and they were running out, with all the horses to feed as well as men. Stannis Baratheon must be laughing his head off, thought Tyrion. If the man was physically capable of laughing. 

He wished nothing more than to curl up in his furs, with a cup of hot wine, and fall into a deep, blissful sleep. That was impossible however. Fall asleep in this land, and you might never wake up. Tyrion was rudely jolted from his reverie by the sound of hoof beats. Two riders halted in front of him. “Lord Lannister!” Daario Naharys called cheerfully. “How are you this fine day?”. There is one who has not lost his swagger yet, Tyrion thought. “Lord Daario” Tyrion nodded. “ Ser Jorah” he addressed by way of greeting to the other man. Ever once for bluntness, Ser Jorah did not waste time with pleasantries. “The Queen wishes to see you” he stated to Tyrion.

“At once” he added. “Far be it from me to keep her grace waiting” Tyrion replied. Turning his horse around, he cantered after the other two men, wondering what could be so urgent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd show this Northern campaign from the POV of both sides, even though Stannis is meant to be the protagonist, just so we get a more nuanced and balanced picture.


	3. The night is dark, and full of terrors

Tyrion awoke suddenly, panting and sweating, despite the cold, as if he had had a bad dream. Gasping, he quickly scanned the tent to look for the source of the disturbance. Nothing. The sounds he was hearing were coming from the outside. Screams, shouting, and by the sound of it, absolute pandemonium filled the night air. He could see shadows racing back and forth outside of his tent, and the unmistakeable clash of steel could be heard. 

The crackle and roar of flames, a terrifying sound to Tyrion's ears, were also there. He cursed himself for being such a fool in not doubling the night watch. A night raid was inevitable. They had been bogged down by terrible snowstorms, losing men and horses every night. Barely able to see in the icy blizzards, the army had been forced to stop where they were, at the foothills of a range of mountains. Daenerys's army was so vast, that by the time he managed to call reinforcements from another section of the camp, their attackers would be long gone.

Grabbing his axe and shield, Tyrion burst into the chaos of the night, and motioned for his two guards to follow him. Shadowy figures were everywhere, racing down the narrow alleys between the rows of tents. Dozens of the tents were on fire, and screaming horses were galloping around in terror, trampling anyone in their way. Tyrion swore. At that moment, one of the indistinct figures burst out of the shadows, sword in one hand, flaming torch in the other, and rushed straight at Tyrion. Screaming a war cry, he took a wild swing at Tyrion's head. Ducking, Tyrion swung his axe with all his might into the man’s leg, taking it off at the thigh. Collapsing, the man’s war cry turned into screams of pain. 

Summoning some inner reserve of strength however, he managed to hurl his torch at a tent that had so far been spared. Despite the snow, it immediately caught light, leading Tyrion to realise that the Baratheon men had doused them with oil or some other flammable material.  
Cursing again, he swung his axe down at the man’s unprotected neck, ending his cries. His guards were busy facing enemies of their own, and were desperately parrying their sword strikes with their long spears. “The supplies!” shouted someone suddenly. “They're at the supply wagons!”. Damn. They could not afford to lose the supply wagons. Not now. Tyrion gripped the haft of his axe tighter, and raised it in the air. “To me!” “Form up!” Immediately his men rushed to form ranks around him, eager for orders amid the chaos of the night. “To the supply wagons!” yelled Tyrion. Roaring a battle cry, his men ran with him, through the narrow tent lanes, cutting down any enemy standing in their way.

They reached the supply wagons to find them burning in a giant conflagration, with Baratheon troops forming a large barrier between them. Tyrion could see dozens of Targaryen flags burning on the pile, as well as other standards belonging to various free cities. Wasting no time, he let out a wild yell, and rushed towards the oncoming rebels. He supposed he should be glad that the one good thing about his height was that most of the enemy's sword strokes were likely to miss him. Ducking under sword swings, he hacked away at the legs and lower torsos of the men opposing him. “Like chopping wood” he had once been told. He supposed it was rather like that, in a way. Except most wood did not have razor sharp branches capable of taking his head off.

The two groups met in a tightly packed melee, bunched so close together, it was near impossible to swing a sword, let alone a spear. Men screamed incoherent curses at each other, and attempted to swing their swords at their opponents head, or land a mail fisted punch in the face. After several minutes of fighting, or what seemed like hours to Tyrion, the remaining Baratheon men began to flee, leaping over the burning supply wagons, and into the darkness of the night to safety.  
Dawn brought a scene of utter devastation. Hundreds of burnt and blackened tents were still smoking, sending up huge columns of thick white smoke, and acting as a signal for any enemies for miles around. 

Charred corpses, both human and horse, littered the ground, where the pristine white snow had been turned into a dirty slush, streaked with red. Wounded men were stumbling around, or lying on the ground, pleading for help. Other soldiers were trying to salvage what they could from the burnt supply wagons and tents. Tyrion entered the Queen's tent, apprehensive of what he would find. As he stepped inside, nervously, an unfamiliar sight greeted him.

The Daenerys standing before him wasn’t angry or shocked. She was distraught, upset, as if the attack had personally hurt her. Tyrion could see in her eyes the pain and sorrow, and he wondered what could have happened to make her like this. Glancing around the room, he took in the other members of the small council. A battered looking Jorah Mormont was there, as was Ser Barristan. Grey Worm too, and in the corner of the room, Tyrion noticed the fire priest, Moqorro. No Daario Naharys however. Hesitantly, he posed the question. “Where is Lord Daario?”. Ser Barristan answered him “He was badly wounded, he became unconscious from his wounds, and has not awoken since. He is alive, but barely”

This was the first time that Tyrion had seen Daenerys lost like this. Dazed, barely paying attention, she asked him for a report. “We have lost a third of our supplies, five hundred men, and many horses. At the current rate, with the snowstorms, we have enough food for three days. Our situation is dire, your grace.” “I say we press on” interrupted Ser Jorah. “A couple of days of hard marching, and we’ll be upon them before they know it. We’ll takes their supplies, it should be enough till we reach a castle”. “Impossible” replied Tyrion. “We’ll never make it in this weather”. “Until the snow stops, we can do nothing”. 

“There is a way”, the deep voice of Moqorro interjected. “A way to stop the storm, and save Naharys”. Desperately, Daenerys looked at him. “What?” she asked, almost begging. “Only a life can pay for another” he replied. “The Lord of Light requires a sacrifice. A sacrifice of kings blood”. With a sinking feeling, Tyrion realised what he was talking about. The prisoner. They had found the boy, Edric Storm, in Braavos, protected by several of Stannis's knights. After a swift interrogation, they had soon learned who he was. One of old King Robert's by blows. Or the ‘usurper's bastard' as the Queen referred to him.  
The tent was silent for a moment, as they digested what had been suggested. Finally, Ser Barristan began hesitantly “You grace...”. “Do it.” Daenerys said. “If this is our only choice, then do it”. Tyrion was lost for words. If this was truly their only choice...no there had to be another way. There had to be. But his silence was all the evidence that there was none. Finally, he bowed, and walked out of the tent, his mind in turmoil.


	4. The small council

Davos strode through the entrance of the King's tent, somewhat wearily, barely suppressing a yawn as he pushed the tent flap aside. The hour was late, past midnight, and Davos had been about to retire for bed, when a messenger had arrived at his tent, panting and red faced. He had informed Davos that the King had convened an urgent small council meeting, and that his presence was commanded immediately. Sighing, Davos had resigned himself to yet another sleepless night.

“Apologies my lords, for keeping you waiting” he addressed to the men in the tent. “Your grace” said Davos, as he bowed formally to Stannis. Impatiently, Stannis waved his hand to the seat next to him. “You are the King’s Hand. We serve at your pleasure Lord Seaworth.” called Lord Wyman Manderly jovially. The master of coin was seated next to a lean and wiry man, with a pox scarred face, a brown wispy beard and a widows peak. 

After the Others had been defeated, and Jon Snow had become King beyond the Wall, the Night’s Watch had been dissolved, most of its brothers either dead or absorbed into King Stannis's army. Cotter Pyke had been one of those who had shown great ability and leadership during the war against the Others. King Stannis had made great use of his prowess and experience with naval warfare, and after the war, he had been the obvious candidate for the master of ships. Stannis did not deem it necessary to appoint a master of laws, believing that he would be personally responsible for all matters of justice in the realm 

The other man was also lean and scar faced, and dark of hair and eyes. His surcoat bore three deaths head moths upon an ash and bone background. Ser Richard Horpe had been appointed Lord Commander of Stannis's Kingsguard, after saving his life for the second time during the battle of Winterfell. Whilst the four men differed in personality and views, they all shared one similarity. All of them were there for their ability, rather than birth. King Stannis had stated time and again that he cared little for the flattery and mummery of the highborn lords. Merit, not birth, was what mattered to their King. Indeed, three of them had not even been born into a house. A bastard pirate, a common born smuggler, a lowborn seasoned killer, and Lord too fat to sit a horse, the men who would rule the Seven Kingdoms. Whatever faults he had, King Stannis certainly had a sense of humour, albeit a cynical, self deprecating and often unintentional one.

Davos took his seat on the King's right hand side, and accepted the cup of slightly salted water Stannis offered him. “Ser Richard, your report first” barked the King. Ser Richard had personally led the raid on Daenerys’ camp. The surviving raiders had returned earlier that evening, after leaving two nights earlier. “The raid was a success your grace. Their guards were exhausted from the cold, and could not see five feet. We snuck in under the cover of darkness, killing the guards. I sent twenty good men to douse the supply wagons and tents in oil and pitch. At midnight we started the fires, and launched our attack. We lost seventy men, no more. They’ll have lost at least four hundred and near a third of the supply wagons. That many men and horses with the supplies they have?, in a snowstorm? The weather'll do the job for us your grace”. Stannis nodded briefly, and his jaw loosened slightly, a sign Davos had learned to take positively. “We will make our preparations anyway. If I have learnt one thing, it is to never underestimate your foe. Ser Davos, are the ballistae and catapults in position?” “Yes your grace.” “And the trench?” 

“The men finished it earlier this evening” “Good, Lord Manderly, see to it that they receive double rations tonight. But no wine. I will have no discord in the ranks” “As you command your grace”. “Lord Pyke, what news from the sea?” “Bad news your grace. That scum Greyjoy's fleet landed in the North a fortnight ago. He brought one hundred and fifty thousand men, all Seven kingdoms born and bred, from Dorne to Casterly Rock. They’re marching to aid the Targaryen girl. We only just learnt about it cos all the scout ships of ours were attacked by that bastard.”

Stannis ground his teeth in anger. A vein began to pulse in his neck, and his forehead was beginning to throb. Davos recognised the danger signs, and sure enough, the King exploded in fury. “Those men he leads should be in my army, by right! By all the laws of gods and men. I am their King! What has Greyjoy ever done for this realm, but plunder and pillage it? I saved their damned lives, all of them! The entire damn realm would be overrun, if it hadn’t been for me. Twice Davos! Twice I saved them! And what do they do to repay me? They fight for Greyjoy, a bloody pirate, no better than a saltwater thief, and a girl who thinks some blonde hair and a few oversized reptiles give her the right to rule! Usurper’s and thieves, all of them. Tell me Davos, truly, what did I do to make them hate me? Have I not been just? Strong? Righteous? I am no Aerys or Maegor the cruel. My brother whored and drank himself to death, and plunged the realm into six million dragons worth of debt! And still the fools love his memory better than they will ever love me. Fools love a fool, but it is not their love I want. Only their fealty, and some bloody gratitude.”

Throughout this extraordinary outburst, Stannis had been standing, his fists clenched, jaw so tight set, Davos thought it might shatter. Now he sank back into his chair, head in his hands. The other members of the council looked at each other, in a stunned silence. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Stannis raised his head. Davos could feel the waves of rage and frustration radiating off him. Staring at his council, his dark eyes like smouldering pits of blue fire, he spoke again, calmer this time, but with a raw animal fury behind the words. “I will not bend before Daenerys Targaryen. I have given everything for the realm. My wife, who hung herself out of grief for my daughter, who was sacrificed by the red woman to save Jon Snow. My men, who were sacrificed to save the realm. Now I have but one thing left to give. And by the Gods, I will give it if I have to. But I will not bend the knee to any living being, not whilst I am still the rightful King, the only King.”

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a man covered in snow and breathing heavily, bursting into the tent. In his right hand he clutched a scroll. “Your grace...” he panted. “I bring urgent word from our agent in the enemy camp” Stannis took the scroll, and dismissed the messenger. Breaking it open, he scanned the contents, and then threw it down onto the fire furiously. “They have the boy, Robert's bastard.” he informed them. “Edric Storm...but how? It cannot be!” stammered Davos. “I assure you, it is.” said Stannis with a dirty look in Davos's direction. “And they plan to burn him, to lift the snows. If they have not done so already.” “The boy is your heir your grace. The last male of Baratheon blood besides you.” “The boy is a bastard, born of sin committed on my wedding bed.” replied the King. “Nevertheless, we must do all we can to rescue him. Your grace, you have already lost one child to the Red God’s fires. Do not lose another.” 

Davos could not, would not let Edric Storm be burnt for that red demon, not after all he had been through. “I will lead the rescue myself your grace.” “Ser Davos, we can hardly risk this war for the life of one child, no matter how important he is” interjected Lord Manderly. “It's out of the question Davos. I won’t allow it. They will have increased the watch tenfold, and every man in the realm knows who you are. They will see you coming and kill you.” stated the King. “I’m not asking you to allow it, your grace. I’m not a battle commander or a master tactician. If I die, you’ll have lost a smuggler, nothing more. The life of your heir is more important than the life of your hand”

Stannis gave a short, mirthless laugh. “So be it Onion Knight. Have it your way. If you succeed, I will name him my heir. If not, I will need to appoint a new hand. I will give you twenty men, seasoned fighters all, to help you. Go now.” Stannis gave him a swift, brusque nod, and turned away. Davos rose, and bowed to the small council, “My Lords. Your grace”, then left the tent, wondering if he would see them again. Fingering his imaginary pouch, he thought of Marya, and young Steffon and Stanny, and the things he wished he had said to them. Seeking out his son, Devan, he imparted some final words of goodbye.

“Look after your mother and brothers, if I do not return, and if you get the chance to see them again. Be a good man, honest and loyal, the way I’ve raised you. And Devan...I want to tell you that I'm proud of you, and the man you’ve become, and so would your brothers be, if they could see you now”  
With tears in his eyes, Devan hugged his father one last time. Davos ruffled his hair, and then turned away, to saddle his horse, and to prepare for what might be the last smuggling mission of his career.


	5. Regret

“There has been no word from Lord Davos. Two nights ago they left, and not a word from the messengers. See to it that I am informed immediately if word arrives.” Stannis was angry. And worried. He did not show his emotions, carefully keeping his face an inscrutable mask, cold and expressionless. But beneath the mask, he was seething. Davos was his oldest and only friend. If that was the right term to use. He did not care for friends, and never had. A King had no friends, only subjects and enemies. But his relationship with Davos went deeper than that. From the moment he had cut off the smuggler's fingers, it was as if a deep, unbreakable bond had been forged. 

Certainly, Davos was closer to him than any of his brothers had been. He had always been loyal and dutiful, to a fault. More loyal than all these petty Lords with their flattery and empty words. He had been the only man loyal enough to save Stannis from himself, when he had been in the depths of despair, in thrall to the Red Priestess. He had saved both Stannis, and the boy, Edric Storm, then. Stannis wondered if he would be able to do it again.

Stannis cast his mind back to when he had been enslaved to the power of the Red God, bound by the power of the Red woman, Melisandre. He had been blind then, and in his blindness, he had committed unspeakable acts. They had been deceived, all of them. His men, his wife, and him most of all. But the deception and lies had ended on the fateful day when he had lost the only person he had ever loved. His daughter, Shireen, that sad, sweet little girl. He remembered the look in her eyes on the rare occasions he visited her, that look of joy and happiness, of safety. 

In the end, he had failed in his duty as a father, he had not been able to keep her safe. He had been hundreds of miles away, when he had received the raven bearing a message that had broken his heart. His wife had hung herself that same day, apparently unable to live with the anguish. In truth, he felt little sorrow there. Theirs had been a loveless marriage. Selyse was a weak and impressionable woman, and once it became clear she would never bear him sons, he had lost all interest in her. He had done his duty, to be sure, in the marriage bed once or twice a year. He had provided for her every need, seen that she had lived in comfort. But no more than that.

Now they were gone, and only he was left. With the death of his family, there were only two things he truly cared about anymore, only two things that tied him to the earth. One was his duty, to fight for the Iron Throne, and what was his by right. The other was his Onion Knight. His conscience. The part of him that was his humanity, that told him what was right. Only Davos had seen the threat posed to his King by the Red God, but by the time Stannis had realised the truth, it had been too late. It had been a sacrifice, Melisandre had said. A sacrifice to raise Azor Ahai, to save them all from the darkness.   
The worst bit was that it had all been true. Melisandre had been right, finally. Jon Snow had saved them all in the end. It was Snow who would be remembered, as the saviour of Westeros, Azor Ahai come again, the hero who saved them from the Others. No one would remember him, or the sacrifices he had made, the brave men he had lost, the daughter he had loved.


	6. Bend the knee

Tyrion stared around him as the army marched, taking a look down from the high mountain ridge they were on. He could see vast frozen lakes, shimmering and rippling under the dark blue ice. There were Pine forests as far as his eye could see, covered in snow, silent and unmoving, like giant sentinels. All this was framed against the backdrop of nine enormous mountains in the distance, snow capped peaks thrusting into the clouds. A few solitary birds of prey soared through the air above them, crying out as they wheeled and turned effortlessly. The wind was still howling, biting every bit of uncovered flesh it could find, cutting through furs, but the snow storms that had claimed so many had finally stopped.

The storm inside Tyrion however, was anything but gone. His mind was still in turmoil, filled with dragonfire and the screams of a dying child. He had urged against what they had done, but to no avail. The fire priest had been too powerful, had sunk his claws too deep in to Daenerys. Tyrion would remember the boy’s screams for as long as he lived, along with the crackling roar of the dragonfire, and the chants of the fire priest. Moqorro had insisted that the use of dragonfire would be a double sacrifice, an act that would more than appease his God, and sure enough, the storms had abated, the snow melted. There had been a last minute rescue attempt, as Moqorro had seen in his fires. Most of the would be rescuers were either dead or dying however. Moqorro had seen the attack coming, and the site of the ritual had been ringed with soldiers, so that it had been impossible to break through.

Now they were on the march, heading towards the valley between the nine peaks, towards Stannis Baratheon, and towards battle. Daenerys had decided to parley with him first, to persuade him of the futility of his cause, but Tyrion did not think the man would seek terms for an instant. He remembered what his father had told him. “This is Stannis Baratheon. The man will fight to the bitter end, and then some.”

Stannis stared down at the man slumped in the chair in front of him. Davos was injured, his clothes bloody and torn. His eyes were filled with regret and sorrow, his mind filled with memories of a dragon and a burning boy. They had failed. The few survivors had limped back into camp, no more than seven of them. “They knew we were coming” Davos told him. Somehow their damned fire priest had seen it in his fires, and the enemy had been prepared. Now Daenerys Targaryen was on the march, and would reach them soon. That there would be a battle, he did not doubt. He had no intention of accepting terms, and he did not think the Targaryen girl would be likely to either.

A low keen wailing sound suddenly filled the air, bringing Stannis out of his reverie. The sound was joined by several others, in a cacophony of noise. The scout horns. Striding out of the tent, and beckoning for Davos to follow him, he mounted his stallion. “See that the men are in position” he snapped curtly to Cotter Pyke and several other generals. “Ser Richard, stay with me.” The Baratheon camp was suddenly a hive of activity, men shouting and running, buckling on armour and fetching their armour. It was chaos, archers were filling quivers, knights giving their swords a final sharpen, men at arms deploying stakes, numerous messenger boys racing between tents seemingly aimlessly. Stannis urged his horse through the throngs of men to the front of his army, just behind the narrow trench they had dug. His forces were arrayed on and around five hills, one at the back, just before the slopes of the largest of the nine mountains, Mount Gladden. The other four were arranged two by two, two in front of the first hill, then the other two in front of those, slightly wider. In between the front two hills Stannis had also positioned extra men, chiefly archers and pikemen. There were four mountains behind them, and opposite them, on the other side of the valley, were three, which Daenerys would have her back to. The other two were positioned roughly midway through the valley, on either side of it. The normally hard ground, frozen solid, was now slush, turned to mud by the torrential rain last night. The snowcaps where Stannis had positioned his ballistae and catapults still looked pristine as ever fortunately.

In the distance, in the narrow mountain passes, Stannis could make out black lines starting to emerge, the sun glinting off thousands of spearheads and shields. His men had formed up in complete silence, as he had ordered, so the only sounds to be heard were the crying of birds wheeling overhead, and the noise of Daenerys' army marching. Finally, the dust settled, and two hundred thousand men faced him. He could see spearmen, swordsmen, archers, the eunuch soldiers, slave soldiers from the free cities with tattooed faces, and thousands of Dothraki horsemen, as well as various sellsword companies. There was no sign of any dragon however.

The ranks of the army facing him suddenly parted, and several riders emerged, riding hard across the plain towards him. One of them bore a white banner of parley. As they got neared he could make out Daenerys herself, on a milk white mare. Accompanying her was a eunuch soldier, bearing her Targaryen banner, and a big brute of man with a scarred and branded face. Ser Jorah Mormont he surmised. And behind them was the Imp. Stannis ground his teeth together, remembering the Blackwater. Swallowing his distaste, he urged his steed forward, followed by Davos and Ser Richard bearing his Baratheon banner.

The two parties reached each other halfway across the battlefield, in no man’s land. Tugging his horse’s reins to halt it, Stannis took in the Targaryen girl. She was a slight thing, garbed in a white dress more suited for a wedding than a battle. Her hair was silvery white, her eyes an astonishing shade of violet. Stannis supposed other men would call her beautiful. The two rulers stared at each other, each unwilling to be the first to speak. Finally Daenerys cleared her throat, and spoke. “Lord Stannis” she greeted him. “This is the one true King of Westeros girl, Stannis Baratheon the first of his name, and he will be addressed as ‘Your grace'.”

Daenerys started in anger, taken aback. “This man is nothing but a usurper and a thief, like his brother, who had my entire family murdered. I promise you Ser, you will pay for the crimes of your house”   
Stannis broke his silence and spoke for the first time. “If we should pay for the crimes of our family my Lady, then you should have had Lord Lannister made even shorter than he is now” Daenerys looked abashed, and ignored the statement. “Stand your army down. Bend the knee and pledge fealty to me, and no one shall die. I swear it. There is no need for battle here. You have less men, you cannot win. Hundreds will die needlessly.”

“Fewer” thought Stannis. “Thousands” he responded. “But I will not bend the knee to any usurper. Joffrey, Renly, Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy, they all sought to steal my kingdom from me. Where are they now? I have saved this realm, even if they refuse to acknowledge it. You are a foreign Queen, with a foreign army. Your advisors are a slaver who fled justice and a man from the most hated family in the realm who killed his own father” Stannis admonished, looking at Ser Jorah and Tyrion.

“I do not reward criminals and kinslayers. Not until they have paid for their crimes. Men like these have bled the realm dry. I mean to bring justice. For every crime, for every man, from lowborn gutter rats to highborn lords like Lord Lannister.”

“I will offer you these terms. Turn around, take your army back to Essos. Leave Westeros, and never return. Otherwise I shall destroy you.”

Daenerys laughed. “With what? That paltry rabble? They’ll be swept away by the first charge.”

“We shall see my Lady. We shall see.”

“Very well” Daenerys replied. “Have it your way. Men will say you broke before you bent, and will call you a stubborn fool. You will be remembered as the King who made his kingdom bleed”  
Stannis did not respond to this, simply turning his horse round and urging it back to his lines, followed by his bannermen.

Daenerys stared at his retreating figure, and shook her head, astonished. Tyrion was anything but surprised. He had known it would always have had come down to a battle. Not for nothing was Stannis Baratheon the most stubborn man in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Give the order. The Dothraki will charge first. They should sweep that motley band away with little trouble. If not, we will send in the rest of the army.” Daenerys looked excited, her eyes lit up with the prospect of battle, as she gave her generals the command.

As Stannis reached his men and dismounted, the sound of furiously whinnying and snorting horses grew and filled the air. The ground began to shake as if there was an earthquake, and a noise like thunder filled Stannis’s ears. Turning around, he stared across the plain, at forty thousand mounted men, armed to the teeth, whooping and yelling war cries, galloping across the valley towards him in one long, unbroken line, extending as far as his eye could see. Despite the mud, they were approaching at a frightening pace, tens of thousands of barbarians, poised to sweep his little band away in a tidal wave of horses and steel. They appeared as one giant creature, united and whole, a vast body, like some gigantic wave, foaming at the mouth, rolling over the land effortlessly towards him.

Stannis smiled grimly. He could feel the terror in his men, as they drank in the awesome sight. Standing at the head of his men, he drew Lightbringer in one fluid motion, the rasp of steel against leather painfully loud in his ears, and stared death in the face, his heart racing and beating in time to the hoofbeats of forty thousand horses charging towards him.


End file.
